Swallow That Pill That They Call Pride
by Kanousei
Summary: Clark Kent thought he would be reporting for The Daily Planet until he died, or at least until the world ended. One did not necessarily follow the other, after all. Slight AU, Clark/Bruce, details fabricated at whim


**Title:** Swallow That Pill That They Call Pride(1/?) [Likely 3 to 5 chapters total]  
**Author:** Kanousei**  
Rating:** PG-13 (touch of language – smut comes later)**  
Length:** 1,000+**  
Pairing/Characters:** Clark/Bruce, Batman, Superman, Lois Lane, Lex Luthor (slight mention of UST), Alfred, Dick Grayson**  
Summary:** Clark Kent thought he would be reporting for The Daily Planet until he died, or at least until the world ended. One did not necessarily follow the other, after all.**  
Warning:** Rap lyrics (my newfound and entirely unexpected fascination), Crack! fabricated details, AU, slash, weirdness, beta-less, liberties taken**  
Note:** In this particular universe, Batman and Superman have not worked so closely together, and Clark does –not– know that the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne and everybody's favorite brooding bat are one and the same; in the Silver Age/Birthright vein, Clark and Lex have personal history. And Wayne Enterprises conveniently owns the Gotham Gazette.

* * *

_  
I turn my head to the east, I don't see nobody by my side  
I turn my head to the west, still nobody in sight  
So I turn my head to the north, swallow that pill that they call pride_

It happened very quickly. One day The Daily Planet was a solid, reputable bastion of world news, respectably independent, and the next it was bought and sucked hollow of content like marrow from a greasy chicken bone, like a cheap pumpkin scraped clean.

But it didn't, really. It happened very slowly, gradually, minute drops in stock coupled with increasing pressure from competitors. It happened so very slowly, and was surely expected by the majority of the paper – the ones who weren't caught up in the tight, glamorous circle surrounding Superman.

Lois Lane, still aglow from her Pulitzer, was perhaps the most stunned of all. Jimmy came close, though. He took to staring out the high windows, coffee turning cold in his hands, eyes roaming absently for a glimpse of red. And Clark.

Clark Kent thought he would be reporting for The Daily Planet until he died, or at least until the world ended. One did not necessarily follow the other, after all. But some primal, childlike part of him had just assumed it would always be there, the sliver of normalcy in which he was not the savior of mankind, not the strongest man-shaped organism on Earth. At the Planet, he was a background player, all tweed and polite deference fading into the crowd. He was not the most important person in the room.

* * *

Lois and Jimmy bit blindly into massive pretzels wrapped in wax paper. From their seats on the gleaming, newly donated bench (courtesy of Veritas, the fragment of Luthor Corp.'s burgeoning media conglomerate that now owned their dream) they could stare up at the slowly revolving globe atop their skyscraper. Passersby might have thought they were sitting slightly closer than propriety should allow, but the stretch of space at the end of the bench was for Clark's broad frame.

Clark doubted they even noticed him approaching, but he carefully struggled to balance the paper cups brimming with steaming coffee all the same. In the millionth of a second it took for his brain to fire electrical signals and form thought, he considered spilling some (just a smidge) and scalding himself (because coffee would never dare burn Superman, and every little bit of reinforcement counted) but failed to summon the energy. Distracted as they were, it would be a waste of showmanship.

Lois held out a hand for her coffee (black as night, sweet as sin) without a glance, muttering miserably around a mouthful of dough and kosher salt.

"I'm thinking eighty percent straight off the wire. Maybe another ten in stale bits from real newspapers. Or fifteen. Five for Planet staff? Breaking news on Saint Lex Luthor. Fuck."

Clark was fairly sure that was the gist of it. Muffled as she was, however, Lois might have well been extrapolating on the mating rituals of Metropolis pigeons and where, exactly, they were hiding all the chicks.

Lois was the angriest of them, and the most despondent. Perhaps because she was the golden girl, and Veritas had offered her a position. Clark and Jimmy had not bothered to resign, since it was obvious enough that they would soon have polite meetings with their new higher-ups. But Lois they wanted. Clark wondered if that was why she had started taking her coffee sweeter than ever – to overcome the bitter tang of finally getting what she wanted (the position, the authority, recognition of her talent) from the wrong place.

Clark knew he ought to be looking for work. He didn't have Lois' good name and reputation, or Jimmy's appeal of Superman-by-association. (The irony of the fact that they had built their careers on him, on a secret he could not own up to himself, did not escape him.) But he had not even begun. His resume was still buried somewhere in his hard drive, and he put the Classifieds out in the recycling each night with jelly jars and takeout Styrofoam, unread.

Instead, he sat with Jimmy and Lois, coffee turning cold in his hands. Sat, their necks craned upward, and watched the golden planet go on spinning without them.

* * *

Clark wanted to put his hand over the small of Lois' exposed back, hollow and fragile in the open back of her dress, some glossy blue-black material as rich as her hair. But while Superman might embrace Lois any time he liked, Clark Kent could never touch her. In her pearls and elegant heels, she unleashed her venom and sharp edges on unsuspecting throngs too blinded by her glittering smile to realize they were being cut to ribbons.

The nineteenth floor of the Planet housed a stately ballroom, all high ceiling and flanking balconies. The last time Clark had been there, it had been cheerily smothered in non-denominational snowflakes and shimmering white for the Not-Christmas Party. He remembered little else, as shortly after his arrival Clark Kent developed an awful stomachache and Superman rushed to avert an untimely meteor shower which would have pockmarked the better part of central Asia.

Now it was draped in Veritas green and gold and Planet employees (you could pick them out of the crowd by the way their eyes narrowed when not engaged in niceties, by the irritable twitches of their hands as the CEO and various Veritas executives made glowing speeches into their microphones) milled about knocking back free champagne and as many catered appetizers as they could stand before the time came to jump ship.

Lex had chosen, with his usual foresight, not to overly publicize the takeover, to make use of the advantages offered by the Planet's reputation. And he would not speak himself – no need to emphasize the fact that he was the power behind the puppets. Lex stayed in his own corner, eyes watchful, cradling a glass of something amber that rattled with ice. The victor surveyed his spoils with quiet satisfaction, classy enough, as always, not to be smug.

When their eyes met fleetingly across the room, Lex raised the untouched glass in acknowledgment, nodded faintly, but no more. He might find a place here for Clark, if asked, but only as a favor to someone he once knew. It had been years since they were just a Kansas farm boy and a prodigal son. Once they had driven for hours through nights in Lex's sleek cars, the shared air between them heavy and silent, filling up with trust and possibility. But their could-haves and might-have-beens were behind them now. They were different men. Clark felt a familiar prickling in his fingertips at that glance, a faint heat beneath his starched collar, but no more. They were different men, and Lex had swept up Clark's future in the tide of his ambition without malice. It was not about Clark. Clark Kent was not important.

But Bruce Wayne was.


End file.
